


Absolution

by tambrathegreat



Series: The Slytherin Redemption Series [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:21:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tambrathegreat/pseuds/tambrathegreat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first Yule after the defeat of the Dark Lord, Gregory Goyle has run out of options.  He finds help in an unexpected place.</p><p>All recognizable characters and places belong to JK Rowling.  I make no money from this endeavor.  I also do not own the Parrot Sketch.  That belongs to Monty Python's Flying Circus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absolution

Gregory Goyle hated Christmas.

Goyle had been on the run since the defeat of the Dark Lord, or Old Aspy as he and Vin used to call him well out of earshot of the other Death Eaters. Vin and Greg may have been dim, but they were definitely not that dim. It wasn't like they had really wanted to do all those things that they had been made to do in Old Aspy's name, anyway. Their families had expected it. It didn't seem fair that Vin was dead, burned up at Hogwarts, and Harry Bloody Potter still lived. Potty had a choice. He could have chosen not to fight. Vin, Draco and Greg couldn't. Their families would have killed them if Old Aspy didn't. The thought of his friends at arms sent a dull stab of pain through him. He tried not to do that too often. He could hear Malfoy's snide scoff _“What, you tried not to think? Qu'elle suprise.”_

He wasn't sure what the last part meant, but Malfoy had been fond of saying it, so he might as well say it in Greg's head.

Greg pulled his cap down against the sharp wind that was blowing from the north. Great time to run out of money, family and options. It was Yuletide, and who would really care if he gave up? His Da? Not with him being holed up in Azkaban, all nice and warm, with clothes to wear and food to eat. His Mum? She had run screaming from him the minute he had crossed her shadow. He had been six at the time, so he thought it was normal for mums to do that. Only when he had met Mrs. Malfoy, did he realize that not all Mums were as crazy as bat shit. Just his.

He had been staying out of the Wizarding world, but he knew Draco was in prison. The smarmy git hadn't run when he had the chance. For once, Greg had been the smart one. Well, not so smart considering his todger was freezing off and he would die if he didn't find some food soon.

He came to an alley. There were always good pickings around restaurants. If one was on this street, he'd dive and see what he could find. The first bin he came to had old books and dog shit mixed together. He didn't want to think what that shop sold. The next one wasn't much better with its colorful dead fish and one lone, stiff parrot. He had seen a velytision show on one of his stays at the many charity flophouses he had lived in. The show had two blokes arguing about a dead parrot. One bloke had said the parrot was dead, the other kept insisting it wasn't. The bloody Muggles that were watching found it hilarious. Goyle didn't get it. If it had been a wizard pulling that shit, the git behind the counter would have been hexed, and that would have ended it.

He paused behind the last shop, a food one if he could smell things right, with his nose running and his mouth dry from the virus he couldn't shake. Bloody Muggles and their bloody colds.

He opened the bin, quiet-like so if anyone was inside they wouldn't hear him and shoo him off. He was in luck. Some Muggle had left a whole piece of mincemeat pie and a half eaten steak and kidney pastie right on top. It didn't have too much dirt, and if he didn't think about where it came from, he'd be able to eat it just fine.

He stuffed the pie almost whole into his mouth. Crikey, that tasted so good. Better than the bloody house elves ever made at Hogwarts. When he got to the pastie, his mouth was dry. He tried to swallow, but couldn't. He coughed once then gagged. The fucking pastie had turned. He spat. _Holy fucking Merlin, couldn't he catch a break?_

Now that he had started coughing, he really had to. His lungs burned and rattled as he got up a good head of steam. Not mindful of the racket he was making, he leaned against the cold brick, trying to move a little air through his already abused lungs. The world went black around the edges, and he fell to his knees.

He woke later, surrounded by black-haired, black-eyed Muggles who were jabbering shrilly in some foreign language. A spiky-haired little boy sat on the floor, watching Goyle as the adults argued back and forth. Greg tried to sit, but couldn't. The little boy said something sharp, and they all stopped their yammering, as each person turned towards him. It was eerie, like one of the Muggle movies he had been forced to watch in Muggle Studies. It was a black and white piece of gobshite called Village of the Damned. He didn't get the story then, but now-- Greg really didn't feel welcomed.

An old woman with a grey bun scraped tightly to the back of her head, like old McGonagal, said something. The little boy listened then said slowly, as if he he were speaking to a small child. “Gram says, 'We know who you are. You a toss-pot drug addict.'”

Except it sounded different with the boy's look of hatred behind it. Greg couldn't stop a groan from escaping him.

The old woman jabbered again. Spike, as Greg had dubbed the boy, asked, “Gram wants to know why you eat our rubbish. You too good to pay?”

“No... No... money.” Greg gasped out. “Sorry.”

The boy turned to the old woman and yammered at her for longer than it took for Greg to say what he did. He closed his eyes. It would only be a matter of moments before the Muggle Aurors took him away, he might as well sleep. The room fell silent as he dozed. Then the sing-song screeching started up again as Greg heard a distant knock. He felt the crowd leave. Good, he'd be able to jump out the window and then he'd fight anybody that came after him.

Greg intended to fight, he really did, but the only thing he managed to do, was kick the covers off his feet.

After a few moments of laying there with a hot body and cold feet, he felt someone move the covers back over him. He cracked his eyes open, first one, then the other. A blandly nice-looking man in a black suit with a funny collar stood beside the bed. Spike was there too, his dark eyes nasty and his face screwed into a good imitation of a Snape Grimace. The man smiled. “Why, you're just a boy. I was expecting some hardened criminal from what the Changs were telling me.”

Greg didn't know what to say, even if he could've talked right then, so he fell back on his strong, silent approach. Malfoy always said it made him appear more intelligent.

 _“Quelle suprise, ”_ he heard the blond Slytherin say in his head again.

Goyle shook himself as the man sat on the edge of the bed. “My name's Father Cavanaugh. I've come to get you the help you need.”

The man turned to Spike. “We'll need Dr. Millspaugh. Here's the number.”

Greg watched the boy leave the room, then winced as the racket started up downstairs again.

“So, what's your poison?” the man asked as politely as Malfoy's dad over high tea. “Are you spiking, on methadone, crank, crack, booze?”

Poison? Did the man think he had tried to kill himself? Greg would have been affronted if he had known what half the words meant. “No poison. 'msick.”

He felt the tears start in his eyes. He wished he had a Mum like Mrs. Malfoy. She wouldn't have let him lie here in some jabbering Muggle's house with some chubby, nice version of that traitor, Snape. She would have taken him away, or got Snape to protect him, traitor or not. Crikey, he hated to cry. It was so un-Slytherin. The fat man smoothed his soft, cool hand over Greg's head. “It'll be okay son, I'll find a safe place for you to stay.”

“Yer takin' a piss,” Greg gasped out. “Ain't no safe place for me.”

_Eighteen Years Later..._

Father Gregory Goyle loved Christmas in Venezuela. He loved the warmth of the sun, the softly lit houses, the green beauty of it. It had been eighteen years since he had left England and he had paid his debts as far as he was concerned. With every street child he reclaimed, with every _mestizo_ he taught to read, he had paid for his absolution in blood and sweat.

Oh, yes, he still carried the Dark Mark, still remembered each and every torture he had been made to inflict or endure, but as he turned to the doors of his Parish house, he knew that the Christmas that Ian Cavanaugh had found him, was the best Christmas of his life. He had found a purpose, become a Priest, like Ian, and settled into the life that, Christ-willing, he could continue in peace.

He slid the key into the lock, opened the door and settled down for his meal. He had Mass to conduct tonight, and he would say a special prayer for the Changs and Father Cavanaugh, the people most responsible for his happiest Christmas ever.


End file.
